


A Fascinating Gaze

by Edward_Fairfax



Series: Taking the Game Up [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9147190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edward_Fairfax/pseuds/Edward_Fairfax
Summary: Or:  Five times Tommy Standish found Brandon Saad staring at him (and one time Brandon didn't even know about)A "Missing Scene" set in Las Vegas during and just after Chapter 24 ofAnd For the Record(and I'm very sorry, but it probably won't make any sense at all if you haven't read that first).





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for everybody who wanted more of Tommy, and, especially, for Quoteless, who _really_ wanted more. I hope you all like it.
> 
> Happy New Year!

The first time Tommy found Brandon Saad staring at him, he didn't think anything of it; Saad had just finished gushing to Sid about the concert (Tommy tried to hide his smirk; he really was Andrew's fan boy), and then he seemed to be ignoring Kaner, who was chirping him about his iPod, by looking at Tommy. Since Tommy couldn't help but notice, he said hi. He didn't know if he should introduce himself or not (off the ice, he still felt so far out of his fucking comfort zone with anybody but the Pens it wasn't funny), but Saad made it clear he didn't have to.

“Tommy, right?”

“Yeah. And . . . uh, obviously I know who you are, but I should call you . . . what?”

Saad laughed. “You can call me Brandon. How'd you get people to call you Tommy, not some fucked-up version of your last name? Or something worse?” He made a face, and thinking about “Man-Child,” Tommy had to laugh.

“In Juniors, they tried a couple of different things: Andy, for one. Even though I got a brother named Andy, I could've lived with that, but another winger whose name _was_ Andy said it was too confusing. Then they tried out 'Disher.' Which became 'Dishy' in about two minutes, and I could tell it would get pretty bad really fucking fast, so I just said I wasn't answering to anything but Tommy.”

“And that worked? I didn't have it too bad in the NDTP—or even in the CHL—but on the Hawks? That would just have escalated things.”

Tommy shrugged. “I guess I just look like a Tommy.” But he couldn't entirely repress a grin. “Plus: since I do got older brothers, I guess you could say I know how to make a point.”

Saad . . . no, Brandon . . . snorted. “Uh, yeah. I remember that from when we played you in March.”

Tommy felt so fucking flattered, he almost didn't know what to say. Except . . . “Uh, thanks.” He hoped the fuck he wasn't blushing. “I was lucky.”

“Maybe. You were also fucking fast!”

They both laughed, and by the time they finally made it into the reception room and Brandon said that they should get together for a beer later on, Tommy agreed—and kind of figured that they both actually meant it.

**********

The second time Tommy saw Brandon staring at him, Bettman had just called Andrew's concert “a very pleasant entertainment”; Tommy made a swift survey of the room to gauge the reaction. Sid had his “I want you to be on fire so bad just so I can piss somewhere else” glare on (it was a constant source of amazement to Tommy that Sid could convey so much emotion with a blank face. And also how easy it was to read his expressions, once you got to know him). Ovi looked like he wanted to draw his sword and lead a cavalry charge at Bettman (is that something Cossacks used to do? Tommy had no idea). He scanned a group of Hawks next; Toews' face was kind of like Sid's, only more purple (well, reddish-purple; was that puce? Something else to Google later on). Tommy couldn't really decipher Kane's expression, but Brandon? Brandon met Tommy's eyes like he'd been waiting for them, and shared a “Can you fucking believe this asshole?” look before he turned back to the stage. Tommy shifted his angle slightly, and took another look.

Brandon Saad, he decided, did a really excellent bitch face. Like, _Supernatural_ level excellent.

**********

Tommy almost missed the third time Brandon's eyes were fixed on him.

He'd been nursing his beer after doing Sid patrol (“For fuck's sake, Sid, stop _staring_ at him!”) when he got a good look at Andre Burakovsky.

Tommy studied him for a minute or two. And then rolled his eyes. And walked over to him.

“Look, I know we don't really know each other. But I do know Andrew. So, I got a piece of advice for you. You want it?”

He waited—and read the instinctive attempt to deny morph into defensiveness . . . and then, after a space, twist into half-humorous acceptance.

“Sure.”

“You should sack up and actually _do_ what you've started to do at least twice: go over there and say something to him.”

“Like what? I should say, 'You know, the last thing I wanted to do today was go and watch the guy who made me feel like I was a twelve year old piece of shit raise millions of dollars for hockey kids?'”

Resisting the urge to slap him upside the head (even though Tommy was the youngest, it was amazing how often his brothers needed a wake-up call), Tommy laughed. “Yeah, that'd go over real well. Was there anything in the concert you liked?”

After a second or two, Burakovsky admitted, “Maybe.” He shifted his feet, and then, only a little grudgingly, added, “Yeah. That German folk song. That was . . . it sounded like I would hear at home. He's got a good accent.”

“Then go tell him that. Trust me, he'll understand what you're doing.”

“How do you know?” There was a little belligerence creeping into his voice now; Tommy needed to stop that shit right fucking now.

“First time I ever met him, I pissed him off. Him personally, I mean. I said some stupid shit, and he called me on it. Big time. And I could've got mad, or I could've ignored him, but he was fucking right, okay? So I was honest—'cause believe me, that guy can _smell_ a lie—and I apologized.” He shrugged. “And that was the end of it. We did a couple of shots and called it a day. And now? We're friends.” And wasn't that still hard to believe sometimes.

Burakovsky hesitated—visibly—and then came to a decision. “Okay. Fine.” He shook his head. “I just want to stop thinking about it.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” His own memory still made Tommy itch sometimes.

Burakovsky met his eyes: and maybe he wasn't totally hopeless, because he laughed. So Tommy did too. And then decided to be extra nice.

“One more thing: if I was you, I'd talk to him in German. You don't need,” and Tommy circled his head around the room.

Burakovsky followed suit . . . and winced. “Good idea.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Okay. Fine.” He took one step and stopped. “Uh, thanks, Standish.”

“You're welcome.”

Another step. Then he laughed again. “You know,” he said, “hockey is easy. This social shit? Is fucking brutal.”

“Point,” Tommy agreed with a laugh of his own. Burakovsky held out his fist; they bumped, and then he walked away. Heading towards Andrew.

Tommy watched him for a second or two, and then decided he'd definitely earned another beer. He turned—just in time to see Brandon jerk his eyes away.

Tommy's mind analyzed this turn of events as if it were a play. “Well, isn't that interesting,” he thought. And changed direction. And when Brandon looked at him again, he held up his beer and raised his eyebrows. And smiled.

And Brandon smiled back. And nodded.

“Maybe more than interesting,” Tommy thought. His smile turned into a grin. Which he tried to hide. More or less.

**********

It was almost impossible to have a private conversation in a place like this, so they didn't really even try. But after a while, Tommy got the impression that Brandon really wanted to. Which was good. 'Cause if that happened, maybe Tommy could get a better idea about what the hell was going on. He'd narrowed the possibilities down to:

      1. He's just being nice.

      2. He's being nice because he's Andrew's fan boy, and Andrew and me are friends.

      3. He's being nice because he's a nice guy and because he thinks I'm funny. Or nice. Or something.

      4. He's being nice because he wants to bone me.




The thing was: Tommy had some—okay, a little—experience with number 4, but he was kinda at a loss here, 'cause while he was definitely sensing _something_ , he still wasn't exactly sure that was it.

So he stood there and shot the shit with Brandon and with whoever else stopped to talk to them. It made sense that Brandon (seriously? Brandon? The guy needed a better name, and as someone whose middle name was Burton, he knew what he was talking about) knew a ton of the players a hell of a lot better than he did, but Tommy tried really, really hard to hide the (totally ridiculous) sense of satisfaction he got when Daniel and Elisabeth stopped for a minute to check in, and Tommy got to introduce them to Brandon. (Maybe Brand? Ugh. That was even worse than Brandon.) Of course, the best part was when Elisabeth reminded Tommy about joining them for dinner. Tommy started to glance at Brandon, but stopped himself in the nick of time; like her son, though, Elisabeth didn't miss a trick, and told Brandon he was more than welcome to join them.

Brandon fucking _stammered_ his thanks—which was so adorable Tommy wanted to kneel down right there and blow him; he was so flustered that he totally missed the incredibly obvious wink Daniel gave Tommy.

Not for the first time, Tommy wondered what Andrew's childhood had been like.

When Daniel and Elisabeth walked away, Brandon stared after them for a second. “Wow,” he said finally. Then he grinned. “Guess I lucked out talking to you!”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Not that I don't want to take credit or anything: but I'm pretty sure Andrew would've invited you anyway. You know, I was there when he told a couple of us you were a opera fan. His 'first NHL fan,' I think he said.”

“Really?” His voice almost cracked.

When he had the time, Tommy was gonna sit down and figure out why he found this whole fan boy side of Brandon Saad so fucking cute. But not right now.

“Do they—the rest of the Hawks, I mean—give you shit about liking opera? I heard Kane, before.”

“The Hawks give everybody shit about everything,” Brandon said ruefully. “But it's not too bad. I mean, maybe some of the guys thought it was a little weird, but as long as I don't blast it at them in the locker room, it's okay.” He gave kind of an embarrassed laugh. “I was so fucking paranoid about my iPod it wasn't even funny. That's a relief, anyway.”

“What is?”

“That I don't have to hide it any more.” And then he snapped his mouth shut. And very obviously looked everywhere but at Tommy.

Well, well, well.

Tommy went with his gut.

“I know that feeling.”

Brandon slowly made eye contact.

“Yeah?”

Tommy nodded. “Only, not about opera. I mean, it is a relief to be open. Or . . . maybe I should say, out. To the team.”

Brandon's eyes widened.

“Really?”

Tommy nodded. And grinned. “Two minutes after I told the guys, they're trying to fix me up. I'll tell you about it sometime. If you want.”

“Uh . . . yeah. That sounds . . . good.”

Dazed was also a good look on him, Tommy decided.

**********

The next time Tommy found Brandon really staring at him, his dick was in Brandon's mouth.

There hadn't been any stares over dinner. Which was probably a good thing, since in addition to the Pens and all of the guys he'd sung songs to, Andrew had invited all of his buddies from the Hawks. But there had been glances: casual, sideways, appreciative, sharing. All kinds of glances. Which maybe got a little more heated the longer dinner lasted. But nothing nobody would notice, really. Except maybe for Daniel.

When dinner was finally freaking over, Brandon got a kind of awkward expression on his face. Tommy's heart started to sink; had he read everything totally wrong?

“I, uh, really wanted to, uh, hang with you—you know, just us?—but . . . well, I kind of forgot I'm sharing a room.”

Tommy smiled. And hoped that he'd managed to keep the relief off his face. “So am I. But I know for a fact that he's got other plans. For the whole night.” Sid had managed to mostly control himself during dinner, but Tommy wasn't taking bets as to how much longer that would last.

Brandon's eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. So: I'd really like it if you came back with me.” And if Tommy's tone said more than his words, well, maybe he meant it to.

The look on Brandon's face made it plain that he'd gotten the message. “That sounds great. I, uh, should swing by mine first, though. Unless. . . .” He looked around, and lowered his voice a little. “You got stuff?”

“For sure.” And Tommy thanked God he'd actually checked the date on his rubbers before he'd left home. And had helped himself to some of his brother's, since his had expired.

There wasn't much talking between them in the elevator or on the walk down the ridiculously long hallway. But the silence didn't seem awkward. It was . . . charged, Tommy decided: there was no fucking doubt what they were both thinking about. (Of course, there were the details still to be worked out; Tommy really hoped that Brandon wasn't only a one-way kind of guy.)

When they reached the room, Tommy shoved his key card in the lock and waved Brandon in first (and held in a snicker; his mother would've been so proud of him). He pushed the door closed with his foot, and not even trying to hide his grin, said, “Hey there.”

Brandon grinned back—but Tommy thought that now he detected some awkwardness. Not that he wasn't feeling some himself. And even though he hadn't gotten laid in far too fucking long, he still wanted to take his time and enjoy himself, so instead of yanking Brandon towards him, he inched his way into his personal space, wrapped his arms around him and gave him a quick kiss. He could feel Brandon's start of surprise.

“Shit,” he thought to himself. Out loud, he asked, “Do you not like to kiss?”

“Uh, yeah. I do. It's just . . . usually the guys I'm with don't.”

“Well, I do.” Tommy waited. And Brandon didn't disappoint. Tentative at first, the kiss quickly became anything but. They stood there, pressed front to front, rocking. And then rubbing. And Tommy wasn't sure which one of them started to moan first, but a tiny corner of his brain told him, “You can go fucking slow next round.”

Since Tommy was a firm believer in listening to himself, he latched on to Brandon and took the kiss deeper. The groan he got hit every fucking vertebra as it rumbled its way down his back.

Then Brandon wrenched his mouth away. He was actually panting, and Tommy was seriously close to saucing his pants.

“What . . . what do you like?” Brandon asked him hoarsely.

Tommy forced his brain in the general direction of coherency. “I like most things. I'm a big fan of doing what feels good.” He pulled Brandon towards him and kissed him again. “And I got to tell you: you feel pretty fucking good right now.” Another kiss. “You got any preferences I should know about?” Brandon's eyes glazed over as Tommy groped him; Christ, his dick was like a fucking spike.

“Come on, Bran: tell me what you like. You want to take the edge off and then take our time?” He pressed the heel of his hand down the length of his cock. “'Cause I hope to fucking God you're not interested in only getting off once.”

“No fucking way,” Bran growled. “Can we do this lying down? And with less clothes?”

“We sure as shit can.”

Less than a minute later, they were rolling around on the bed, mouths fused together, dicks slick against each other.

“This is fucking great,” Bran rasped.

Tommy couldn't agree more—until Bran rolled over again and grunted as he hauled Tommy on top of him. He started thrusting up furiously, gripping Tommy like a vise, and Tommy was so on board with that. He picked up his own pace and bit Bran's lower lip; Bran's hips must have jerked a foot off the bed, and the sounds of his whimpers just fucking primed Tommy's piece. Tommy soothed the lip with his tongue—and then bit it again.

And felt his fucking toes curl as Brad shrilled out a moan as he unloaded; the feel of the hot cum shooting between them—the sound of it being spread over them—between them—sent a jolt directly to the base of his spine and Tommy fucking pressed Bran deep into the mattress as he came himself.

They lay there, panting, as the aftershocks wracked them. Eventually, Tommy shifted, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Hey Bran,” he said, grinning for all he was worth.

Bran's answering grin was equally wide. “Hey Tommy.”

Tommy had a _very_ good feeling about his prospects for the rest of the night. “As our opera singer friend might say: what'll we do for an encore?”

Bran laughed out loud. And then said, a little shyly (and that just fucking did things to Tommy), “I've got a couple of ideas.”

Tommy resisted the urge to dance. “Brandon Saad: you got my permission to rock my world.”

And once they managed to pry themselves apart and stand up, Bran led Tommy to the shower. And when the water was hot and they'd done the first rinse, he snagged one of the little bottles of whatever from the ledge, cracked it open, and started soaping Tommy's skin.

They kissed again, when he was working on a convenient section; when his mouth was too far away, Tommy used his own hands to touch: to rub or pat. Caress was not a word he needed to think about right now: but once it was in his brain, he shivered a little. It was so . . . intimate.

Bran's soapy fingers latched onto Tommy's nipples and a shock wave went straight to his balls. He groaned.

Bran grinned. “You like that, huh?”

“For sure,” Tommy said as he reached over to return the favor; Bran's eyes closed as he leaned into the touch and Tommy's dick went from “I'm getting ready to get into this again” to “I am so fucking there” at the look of actual fucking pleasure on Bran's face.

Bran opened his eyes. Looked down. Then raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

Tommy nodded.

“Good.”

Then he sank to his knees and swallowed Tommy whole.

Even over the sound of the water, Tommy was sure his groan could be heard in the next room. Maybe even on the next floor. For sure, Bran heard it, because his eyes darted upwards for a second: before he hollowed his cheeks out and started doing things with his tongue that made Tommy close his own eyes for a minute, in a desperate attempt not to embarrass himself and come right then and there. And when he managed to to pry them open, he looked down: and met that fucking _stare._ It was a look that practically screamed hunger. Or maybe even something more than hunger. Like . . . need.

Tommy felt his balls rise.

“If you keep doing that,” he rasped, “I'm gonna come real fast.”

Bran's response was to close his throat around the head of his dick.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bran!” Tommy struggled to control himself. When he was sure he'd bought himself some time, he rested one hand on the top of Bran's head—and tilted it back a little.

“That what you want? You want to make me come? You want to eat my load?”

If the look in Bran's eyes wasn't enough, the fact that he starting yanking on his own dick sure was. So Tommy went with it; it was one of his favorite fantasies, after all, even if in his head he was usually the one kneeling.

“You look so fucking good there, Bran. Down on your knees. My dick down your throat. It feels so fucking great. . . Jesus, your mouth is hot! Oh yeah: use your tongue again. Just like that: right fucking there, that's the spot.”

Tommy's words of praise obviously did something really fucking profound to Bran, while his directions . . . he took those and upped the intensity to about twelve. Tommy's brain began to shut down, and he started babbling some of the things he told himself when he jacked off to this scene.

“You've got the sweetest fucking mouth. Oh fuck: this feels so fucking good. _You're_ so fucking good. That mouth of yours, that fucking mouth . . . it was fucking made to suck my cock!”

Bran's eyes got even wider—and then they got darker, and more heated, and even more intense, and they bore into Tommy's . . . and Tommy's orgasm came up out of nowhere; he managed to ride the brink for a few more seconds before shooting.

“Fucking hell! You've got it, Bran! You're getting every fucking drop! Oh my fucking God!”

Tommy flung one arm out and braced himself against the wall as he shuddered through the spasms. And then, panting, trying to catch his breath, he watched Bran's eyelashes flutter as his eyes slid shut, perfect contentment on his face. Which was even easier to see once Tommy's softened dick slid out.

Tommy crouched, tilted Bran's head back, and kissed him. Then he moved his mouth to the general vicinity of Bran's ear and muttered, “Give me a minute and I'll take care of you.”

Opening his eyes, Bran admitted, “Uh . . . you already did.”

Tommy's eyebrows shot up. “Yeah?”

Bran raised his hand and waved it at him.

Their eyes met. And then they both lost it.

**********

Tommy cracked open his eyes . . . and couldn't repress a grin: Bran was still out like a light, his face smooshed into the pillow. He eased himself out of bed and stretched, let himself enjoy the really fucking pleasurable soreness he was feeling, and then padded into the bathroom. When he came back out, he almost laughed out loud: Bran had shifted and there was unmistakable drool on his face.

Tommy hesitated for about two seconds before remembering the rules of being a brother and a member of the NHL. Which meant he snagged his phone and took a picture. Nobody has to know, he thought, but you just didn't ignore something so chirp-worthy.

He slipped back into bed—good; Bran didn't even stir—and switching his phone for his tablet, tooled around on the Internet for a while. Which was really just a cover for enjoying the fact that he had ended the longest fucking dry spell of his life (well, since he started having sex, anyway) the night before—several times, in fact—and that he had a really nice, hot guy in bed with him. For a fucking change: usually the guys he hooked up either couldn't—or wouldn't—spend the night.

But . . . what if this wasn't just a hook-up?

The minute the thought infiltrated his brain, Tommy wanted to slap himself. And if he hadn't been afraid of waking Bran up, he would have groaned. “Don't think about things like that,” he yelled inside his head. “Of course it was just a hook-up!”

Wasn't it?

Shit.

He closed his eyes and started reliving the night before—especially that scene in the shower. The look on Bran's face. In his eyes. His gaze had been naked—well, the rest of him had been naked too, but . . . there had been an honesty there. Bran had shared something with him. And Tommy had responded. Question asked, question answered. Except . . . maybe it wasn't a question, exactly. Maybe . . . it was something else.

Even though he knew better, Tommy let himself imagine: what if? What if Bran wanted to do this again? What if this went somewhere? Then he shook his head at himself. “Don't be fucking delusional, Tommy,” he told himself. “Don't get your fucking hopes up. This won't go anywhere. It probably _can't_ go anywhere. Live in the fucking moment for once in your life.”

It probably wouldn't help. Sometimes Tommy wondered how the hell he'd ended up with a soul that craved permanence. And intimacy.

He glanced over—and discovered Bran's eyes, wide open, fixed on him.

“Hi.”

Bran smiled—and that smile did fucking serious damage to Tommy's insides. “Morning.”

“Hope I didn't wake you up.”

“Nah.”

Tommy only hesitated a second (“Please let there not be any morning-after bullshit!”) before he bit the bullet: he rolled over and kissed Bran. Who kissed him back, thank you God.

All too soon, Bran broke the kiss. “I should go brush my teeth.”

Tommy kissed him again. “It's not like I don't know exactly where your mouth has been.”

Which made Bran laugh. “You crack me up, Tommy. But I need to piss too.” He pushed the covers back and was halfway to the bathroom when his phone rang. He groaned.

“Ignore it,” Tommy suggested.

“I can't; that's Tazer's ring tone.”

Tommy pretended not to listen but it only took a few seconds to figure out that the promising beginning to the day was not going to pan out.

“Fuck,” Bran said, tossing the phone down. “I'm sorry, Tommy: team breakfast. Tazer's orders.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Remind me, the next time we play you guys, to check him into next week.”

Bran laughed. “I will.” He sighed a little. “Okay, let me get cleaned up.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, and Tommy entertained himself with a very pleasant revenge fantasy involving Toews' dick and a bucket of hot tar. And maybe an ice pick.

The mood had clearly changed when Bran came out. He got dressed, mostly in silence, and when he was ready to go, he opened his mouth—but then didn't say anything. Before the silence could get too awkward—like it wasn't already—Tommy asked, “You all set?”

“I guess.”

Fuck this shit, Tommy swore to himself. He walked over and gave Bran a quick hug. “I had a really great time.” He hoped he sounded sincere, because he meant every word.

“Yeah?” Bran's face flushed a little: in pleasure, Tommy hoped. “Well, I did too.” He returned the hug and then stepped back. “I guess I should go. Before Tazer hunts me down.”

Tommy had to ask. “I'm guessing that would be . . . awkward?”

The color in Bran's face deepened. “Uh, yeah. Kinda sorta. You know?”

Clapping Bran on the shoulder, Tommy reassured him, “Well, don't worry about me; my lips are sealed. Unlike last night.”

Bran choked out a laugh; he looked like a total dork, so it must have been genuine. Then his phone buzzed; he glanced at it and made a face.

“I gotta go. Hey, listen, Tommy: give me your number, okay?”

“Sure.” He rattled it off.

“Thanks; I'll send you mine.”

“Sounds good.” If it actually happened, it would be more than good.

Another buzz.

“Fuck. I”m out of here.”

“I hope you survive.”

With a eye roll worthy of Andrew—well, on a bad day, anyway—Bran said, “Me too. And I hope the chairs are comfortable.”

They were both still laughing when Tommy closed the door.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds. And then sighed. Forced himself to open his eyes and start cleaning up the room; even though the chances of Sid stopping by were practically nonexistent—he hadn't even asked for one of the key cards—Tommy figured he didn't need to see condom wrappers. And _he_ for sure didn't want to answer any questions. Sid's or anybody else's—and, if he was being honest, especially his own.

He'd just tracked down his other sock (“How the _fuck_ did it end up on the lamp?”) when he got a text. 

> _Now u have my #_

“Down, boy,” Tommy told himself. 

> _Great! Thx._

Less than a minute later, he got another. 

> _I rlly like the way u call me Bran._

Trying to ignore the sappy feelings welling up inside of him—and not letting himself think too much—Tommy typed: 

> _I aim to please. If u didnt know that already._

He waited. And then burst out laughing at the happy face and eggplant emojis.

Tommy dumped the trash in the bathroom; glancing at the mirror, he did a double take: he was grinning like an idiot.

“You know what?” he told his reflection. “I think I deserve a little celly. Okay, Tommy: you got ten minutes to act like the total rom-com addict you are!” He went back into the bedroom and started Googling.

**********

Tommy was suffering through the so-called entertainment part of the awards when he felt the buzz. He slipped his phone out—even though he was for sure not the only one doing it and he was sitting way in the back besides, his mother had rules—and started grinning the second he saw Bran's face smiling out at him. (He'd finally picked a publicity photo from the IceHogs 'cause it was the best of his face. Especially his eyes.) 

> _R u as bored as me?_
> 
> _Probably._

A pause. Then: 

> _Want to leave? Go 2 dinner?_

Tommy forced himself to wait ten seconds before replying; he also forced himself not to make a victory fist pump. 

> _Sounds great. Where?_
> 
> _NOT in hotel._
> 
> _That rlly works 4 me._
> 
> _Lobby in 10 mins?_
> 
> _OK_

All of Tommy's attempts to restrain himself disappeared when he walked up to Bran and saw his face light up.

“Hey, Tommy.”

“Thanks for the invite.”

“Glad you liked the plan. Any ideas where we should go?”

Tommy considered. “Well, Daniel was telling me about a Mexican place he likes. It's downtown, though: ain't that kinda far?”

“That's not a problem; we'll just cab it. The only thing is. . . .”

“What?”

He looked down, a little sheepish. “It's just: would you maybe . . . uh, afterwards . . . well, what are the chances that you'll have your room to yourself again?”

Tommy didn't even try to front. “I'd say pretty fucking good. And I'll also say: I like the way you think. But . . . you want to skip dinner, is that it?” That was a little disappointing. Or more than a little.

“No way.” Bran sounded totally sincere, which was good.

“Then . . . what?”

“It's just . . . well, you know, Mexican. . . .” His voice trailed off and he resorted to waving his hand vaguely.

It took Tommy a few seconds. And then there was no fucking way he could keep the laughter from bubbling out. “You're thinking maybe jalapeños and beans ain't the best idea for tonight?”

“Exactly!” They were both laughing now.

Eventually, Tommy managed to say, “Daniel also told me that he likes the steak house at Circus Circus.”

“Sold!”

They were still laughing a little when they got settled in the cab, their shoulders leaning against each other. And Tommy thought to himself, “It don't fucking matter that maybe this won't go anywhere. If this can't go anywhere. We're here right now and it's nice. If today is all you get, Tommy? Make sure it's a fucking wonderful memory for tomorrow.” Turning his head, he said in an undertone, “Maybe I should've told you this before: but there's one thing about this place Daniel don't like.”

“Yeah? What?”

“He says it's kinda dark.” He raised his eyebrows. “That gonna be a problem for you?”

It didn't take Bran too long to figure it out. “Uh, I'm pretty sure we'll be able to manage.” He snaked his hand over and gave Tommy's a quick squeeze. “You know what, Tommy? I bet we're gonna have a great time.”

“I don't gamble,” Tommy laughed; Jesus, his hand was fucking _tingling!_ “But I think you're right.”

They shared a smile, and even in the dimness of the cab, Tommy could see it reflected in Bran's eyes; he had no idea what his own face looked like, and he didn't even care. He sighed happily and leaned a little closer. “I hope to Christ the tablecloths are long enough.”

 


End file.
